


All Bets Are Off

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm scruffy and unkempt. It's a thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Bets Are Off

Matt swipes at the steam on the bathroom mirror, ignores the bathwater dripping onto the tile floor and stares critically at his face. 

It's been sixteen days and – if he squints – he can maybe make out a dozen new straggling hairs on his chin. 

He hangs his head. This was a stupid, stupid idea.

"Hey, you done in there?" John calls. Matt jumps when he bangs what sounds like a closed fist on the door, hard enough to rattle it on its flimsy frame. "Some people gotta take a piss!"

"Some people. Like there's a line forming on the right," Matt mutters under his breath as he reaches for the latch. John's pushing past him before the door is even fully open, already reaching for his zipper, and Matt goes back to perusing his face in the mirror. "And you know what else is stupid?" Matt asks. "Living in a house with only one bathroom. There's contractors out there, you know. They could add a second bathroom to this place for like ten grand."

He glances over to see John cocking his head. "I'm sorry," John asks, "were we having a conversation?"

"A guy should be able to take his time in the bathroom," Matt answers. "That's all I'm saying."

"A guy who doesn't spend an hour on his _hair_ doesn't need to take his time in the bathroom," John points out. He flushes and reaches around Matt to wash his hands, and Matt notices that he makes sure their bodies press close together when he does so. He can feel John's cock against his ass – not hard, but definitely interested – and he can't deny that his own dick might possibly be intrigued at the thought of some early-morning shenanigans. When he reaches for his bottle of detangler, he takes careful pains to ensure that his own towel-clad ass brushes enquiringly against John, and … yup, definitely a little more than interested. 

"A guy who doesn't even _have_ hair can't begin to understand the complexities of caring for a mane such as mine," he says flippantly. 

"I wouldn't say that," John says. His arms wrap around Matt then, and he rests his chin on Matt's shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Matt's pathetic stubble. "Seems like mine's growing in just fine."

Matt meets his eyes in the mirror, then darts a glance to John's chin. No random disorderly hairs for Detective John McClane, oh noooo. John's beard is thick and full, a mix of brown and grey and even some ginger. It's soft against Matt's skin, and if he didn't know better he'd think that John was stealing some of his conditioner when he wasn't looking. But no, it's just John. Because when they were giving out testosterone John clearly got a double dose. And while Matt's the first to admit that that's definitely to his advantage in some ways – there's something to be said for a big strong boyfriend hovering above you in the bed and keeping you in place because his arms are like bazookas, after all – he can't help but feel somewhat cheated in the whole masculinity department. 

He feels his shoulders sag. It's not really fair.

"Yeah," Matt mutters, sniffing at John's luxurious beard and hefting the detangler. "Yours is just fine."

John snatches at his wrist before he can depress the button, holds his arm still. Because there's that whole testosteroney bazooka arm thing again. 

"You know, I might be willing to let you out of our bet," John says, rubbing his cheek against Matt's skin again lazily. 

"I'm not a quitter," Matt says defensively. He shakes back his wet hair, realizes that he should amend his words just slightly. "Well, okay, except for that time when I dropped out of little league, but it totally conflicted with debate club so that one is not my fault. And we got to the state finals that year so hah, take that Orlando Rodriguez and your fast ball. Oh, okay, also that time I asked for a guitar for Christmas and then had to stop taking the lessons because… do you know that you get calluses on your fingers from guitar strings? Really painful, they like… bleed and everything. My hands are my lifeline, man, I can't risk damaging them! Mom was so pissed. Book club, but I'm not sure that counts since I only joined hoping to get into Andy Martin's pants. And then, yeah, college. But I did last a semester and a half, so that's something, right?" Matt frowns. "What were we talking about?"

"How you're not a quitter," John reminds him dryly.

"Right," Matt says. There was also the chess club debacle, and that whole thing with D&D that nearly turned into a fist fight, and… 

He sighs, meets John's eyes again in the mirror. "So what's your deal?"

John shrugs. "I'll let you out of the bet."

Matt waits for the other shoe to drop, but John merely releases his wrist and stands straighter. 

"Just like that." Matt says warily. "No costume, no funny hat, no Times Square."

"Well," John concedes, "I should get something out of the bargain."

"Here it comes."

John crosses his arms at his chest, eyes Matt defiantly in the mirror. "You shave yours off."

Matt gasps. "What? No!" He reaches up to fondle the scraggly hair on his chin. "This is—"

"An eyesore?" John offers. 

"My trademark!" Matt huffs out. "I'm scruffy and unkempt. It's a thing."

"You look like Shaggy from Scooby Doo," John says.

"Oh, that's it," Matt says. "The bet is ON. You don't even know, McClane, I have knowledge at my fingertips, all right? Just gotta hop online and talk to a few buddies. I've been playing it straight so far—"

"Not according to my dick, you haven't."

"—and there's a network out there for everything, okay? I go underground, I talk to a few choice contacts; I can have something in my hands in three days that'll give me a beard that'll make those dudes from ZZ Top look like twelve year old schoolboys!"

John huffs out a laugh. "You think?"

"You're not going to know what hit you, McClane."

"Okay," John says. "Just don't come runnin' to me on December 1st saying I didn't offer." He smoothes a hand down his beard before meeting Matt's eyes and smirking. "Oh wait, that's right. You'll be running blocks around Times Square dressed as your favourite Marvel character on December 1st. Or was it DC?" He shrugs, claps Matt on the shoulder. "Thor, wasn't it? Gonna be sure to get the boys to block the area off for ya, Matty. Might even make the news."

Matt scowls in the mirror long after John has left the bathroom, plucking at the few new hairs on his chin. He'll show him. There's gotta be some kind of growth stimulation hormone out there, something that the FDA has shelved because of some bullshit regulation. He's going to find it. He's going to win this fucking bet.

He keeps up the internal positive thinking mantra for a good two minutes before his shoulders sag.

He's going to need to order that costume.


End file.
